Unsaid
by tantei no hime
Summary: Some things are better left unsaid. Matthew learns this the hard way during his brother's funeral.


**Setting: **Human AU

**Genre:** Family, Drama, Hurt/Comfort

**Rating:** T

**Characters:** Canada, England

**Warnings:** character death, implied self-harm and parental abandonment.

**Word Count: **1,784

* * *

_**Unsaid**_

"He's always going to be better than you," Matthew's father once told him. At only five years old, all he could do was nod and agree with the man, as much as it hurt him.

Matthew looks towards his father up on the stage as the memory of that day collides with the rest of his broken train of thought.

"He was the greatest son a father could ever ask for, and he will be greatly missed," says the man standing up on the podium. His face is stony and emotionless, as though he is holding back tears that didn't exist.

The people mill about the funeral hall, sitting on the pews, blocking the doorways. They go on and on about how much they love Alfred, how perfect he was, how much they would miss the boy they barely even knew. They walk around, making mindless chitchat, knocking over this and that.

A particularly large man decided that it would be a good idea to squeeze himself between the coffin where Alfred lay and the wall, not wanting to find another way around. The man consequently knocked over not one, but three photo frames, and quickly made his way out with a donut in his hand.

Matthew, though tempted to chase after the man, instead walks over to the photos, and decides to fix them.

The first frame he picks up holds a photo of him and Alfred, smiling with their arms around each other. Matthew stares at it blankly, not wanting to acknowledge the feelings that have been brewing at the pit of his stomach since Alfred died.

Matthew hangs it back on the wall with a bitter smile he forces upon his lips to prevent them from trembling.

_Why'd you have to die, idiot?_

He picks up the second frame, this one containing a photo of their mother. Oftentimes, he would wonder about how different life would've been for them had she been alive.

How different their father would've been if she were still alive.

Matthew hangs the photo on the wall, then he stops. His attention turns to the remaining frame. He glares at nothing more than a replica of their father, back when bitterness and hardships hadn't added years to his face.

_Why does Dad hate me so much?_

But he knows the answer. Of course he does, but he refuses to admit it.

_"Daddy, do you love me?" five-year-old Alfred asks._

_"Of course, I do, Alfred," replies their father, patting him on the head._

_"What about me, Daddy, do you love me?" asks Matthew, copying his twin._

_"You?" their father scoffs. "You're nothing more than an extra."_

_"Extra?" says Matthew._

_"Do you think I wanted two sons? Of course not! How could I support two sons?"_

_"Daddy, what do you mean? Do you mean that you don't want me?"_

_"That's right."_

_Their father walks away, leaving Matthew just standing there, unable to grasp the situation._

_"It's okay, Mattie," Alfred says, putting his arms around Matthew. "I think Daddy was just joking."_

_"It wasn't very funny."_

_"Daddy is never funny. Except for his eyebrows."_

Matthew continues to stare at the photo, withdrawing his mind from what he considered a traumatic flashback. He leaves the frame lying on the floor, secretly wishing that their father would trip over it later.

He waits until everyone has left, then walks up to the coffin, his eyes fixed on his doppelgänger.

"Hey, Al," Matthew says. "How are you?"

No answer.

"Well, I see you're dead," Matthew laughs nervously. He finds it weird, talking to his dead twin like he's still there. It feels like making a conversation with a deceased version of himself.

"So what's it like? You know, death?"

Nothing.

"Right. Can't talk now, huh? You used to be the life of the party."

Matthew sits beside Alfred's coffin, thinking of what to talk about. Even before Alfred ended up in the wooden box, Matthew didn't have much to tell him.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Sorry that I just left you alone."

Alfred just lies there, eyes shut tight, never to open again.

"Forgive me?"

Silence has always meant yes.

"You want to know why I didn't want to see you? Before, when you were in the hospital?"

Matthew fixes his gaze on the tiled floor, anger stirring up within him. He glares at it as though it had offended him, and he is unable to continue the one-sided conversation.

"I just –" He forces his words out with difficulty. "I didn't want to see you looking like that."

_Like what, Mattie? _He could almost hear Alfred chiding.

"Like what? Sick, I guess. And sad. I don't want to remember you sad. You were always the one with the huge grin plastered on his face."

_I'm going crazy, talking to an imaginary Alfred, _Matthew thinks.

_Well _now_, you're making me sad, _his imaginary brother tells him.

"And why is that, 'Alfred'?" Matthew asks as he tries to keep a firm grasp on reality before he ends up in a padded white room with a straight jacket around him.

_Because _you're _sad._

"I'm not sad!"

_You're not sad that your twin died? That's just mean, Matt!_

"Fine, Al. I guess I'm a bit sad," Matthew sighs, stealing another glance at his brother. Alfred lies in the same position as earlier, the peaceful smile he wears probably forced upon his lips by some mortician. He doesn't look very sad.

"Matthew, who are you talking to?" Their father suddenly appears out of nowhere and stands at the doorway. "Are you talking to a corpse?" he asks, obviously displeased at the behaviour his only remaining son was displaying. He shakes his head before walking away.

"Dad, can I ask you a question?" Matthew blurts out before he is able to stop it.

Their father turns around, his expression unreadable.

"What?"

"Do you remember that time when you said you wanted only one son? When you said you didn't love me?"

"When did I ever say that?"

"When I was five."

"I never said anything like that."

"Do you think I could forget something like that? Or make it up on the spot just to grab your attention?"

"It's been more than ten years, Matthew. Did you expect me to remember something like that? Why can't you just forget it?"

"Forget it? My own father tells me he doesn't love me, and you want me to forget it?"

"Yes, Matthew! Forget it! What's the point?"

"You have only one son now, Dad. Isn't this what you've always wanted? Are you happy now?"

Matthew instantly regrets his outburst, and bites his lip. Some things were better left unsaid.

Their father stares at Matthew. Without another word, their father walks away.

Matthew wonders what sort of beast he has unleashed this time.

"Matthew," his father says when he returns. "I'm sorry about what I said back then." He turns around to walk away, before another word could be spoken. But instead of returning to the farthest pew, he approaches the door, car keys in hand.

"And no, Matthew, I am not happy that one of my sons is dead," he says before he exits and drives off.

"Where –" Matthew starts, but there is no one to hear him.

His voice echoes off the walls, providing him with the closest thing to an answer.

He finds himself alone with his brother once again. Only this time, his brother is dead.

"Where do you think he went, Al?" Matthew asks the corpse. "He can't just leave us here alone, right?"

Nothing answers him.

"I think he always wanted to leave us. You were the only thing stopping him, anyway."

"Remember when Dad introduced us to his business associates last year? He was all, 'This is Alfred, a proper young man, polite, respectable and whatever.' Well, something like that. I'm sure you remember anyway. And then, when he got to me, he said 'Oh, and this is Matthew, his twin brother.' "

"Oh, and remember when he chose you to go on that trip with him? Those tickets he won in some company raffle? Yeah, he didn't even tell me about that. I only found out when you started packing."

They went to France that time, and Alfred got Matthew one of those little Eiffel tower key chains. He still has it on his backpack. Matthew has always wanted to go to France, but he'd rather not go with their father.

Matthew laughs bitterly at the memories.

"Do you remember the school play back when we were five?"

No reply, as expected.

"You were Cinderella," Matthew says, laughing. "And Dad was so proud of you! I thought for sure he would be angry that you were playing the part of a girl. I guess not. Because you were fabulous!"

Matthew stands up to look at his brother once again, trying to remember how pretty he must have looked in that costume.

"Yeah, you were great," he tells Alfred, still amused at the memory of him in a dress. "You know what Dad told me afterwards? He said, 'He's always going to be better than you.' I guess he wasn't too proud of me playing the role of a tree. He really loves you. Everyone does, anyway. Heck, even me."

Matthew looks out the window, wondering where his father had gone.

"Hold on, I'll be right back," Matthew tells his brother.

As he goes to the mini-pantry to take a drink, he sees a note on the tray.

_555-1643_

_Call Uncle Iain._

_Tell him Dad left._

Matthew looks at the note in disbelief, willing himself not to crumple it. How long has his father been planning this? Was he just waiting for the right moment?

Matthew walks back to the side of the coffin, note in one hand, and his phone in the other.

"Guess what, Al? Dad's gone," Matthew sighs as he leans on the coffin. "Oh, well. I still have you. I really dread the day they're going to bury you, you know."

Matthew forces a fake smile, but there's no one to put up a façade for. He dials his uncle's number, readying himself to explain what had happened.

He throws away the note in disgust, not willing to read it for a second time.

The note flutters to the ground. As it comes to rest, one can no longer see the phone number of Uncle Iain, scribbled in messy handwriting.

Instead, one will see the words so carefully written, so perfectly chosen, but so painfully overdue.

_I love you._

Whether they're true or not is no one's right to judge. But hasn't it been said that there's comfort in doubt?

**_FIN_**

* * *

Uncle Iain is Scotland.

Cookies to whomever figures out who the mother is, and also the reason why Arthur hates Matthew.

Should I continue this, or let it remain a one-shot?


End file.
